Think Before You Speak (23 page)

Right about the time I planned to call the
police, I remembered my one and only phone lay in pieces on the
pavement.

Down the stairs.

Outside.

Oh, hell-to-the-huh-uh. No way was I going
back out there. The only other option was to run downstairs and
knock on Jimmy-the-Super’s door and ask to use his. Similar problem
though. I’d stay inside my fortress and scream my lungs inside out
before venturing into the hallway tonight. Or ever again.

Wait a minute. Jimmy had all of that
surveillance crap in his apartment. Cameras all over the building –
and scanning the parking lot. Maybe he’d seen us and was calling
the cops at this very moment. Perhaps he was even on the way
upstairs to check on me to make sure I was okay.

Knocks pounded on the door as if we’d had a
telepathic connection. My savior had come to rescue me.

Or the attempted rapist had followed me. That
thought sent all the blood draining from my head, and left me in a
fear-filled daze before self-preservation kicked in. I raced to the
bedroom closet and grabbed my Sig Sauer P938 from the case,
flicking off the safety and chambering a round with trembling hands
before inching toward the door.

Now most people in the south would call out a
friendly
who is it
before checking the window or peephole
and opening the door when someone knocked or rang the doorbell. But
in this case calling out only lets the bad guy know you are home,
are female, and approximately where you are located in the
apartment.

Personally, I’d rather just shoot the bastard
through the door and be done with it, though authorities might look
down on that if I didn’t at least check the peephole first. That’s
why God invented peepholes in the first place, I guess.

I just never in my wildest imagination – or
at least in my current scaredy-cat state – expected to see that
particular face at my door.

It took all of two seconds to release every
bolt and chain and open the door to a slightly stooped, watery
red-eyed familiar mug. Anger and irritation rolled off him in waves
as he eyed the gun in my hand. Or maybe that was from the residual
scent of pepper spray.

“You gonna shoot me now too?” he rasped
before coughing overtook his voice.

“I should after you scared me half to death,
Zeke Taylor,” I yelled. “What the hell are you doing sneaking
around my parking lot at this late hour?”

He didn’t, or more likely couldn’t, answer
and simply handed me the pieces of my dead phone. So I did what any
self-respecting southern woman would do with her ex-boyfriend slash
would-be attacker.

Invited him inside. At least in this case it
was warranted since I imagine Zeke hadn’t meant any harm. And he’s
law enforcement. No need to call the cops now.

After setting the gun on the counter and
steadying him on a barstool, I soaked several kitchen towels with
cold water for eye compresses and gave Zeke a glass of water.
Slinky peered out from beneath the sofa, sniffed the air and
sneezed from the fetching aroma of e
au d’ pepper spray
before scurrying away to the bedroom. My eyes watered from the
stench too. Gee, do you think I may have overdone the protective
hose down more than a little?

Don’t answer that.

Once Zeke breathed a little more freely and
his eyes grew a bit less rheumy, I laid into him with the full
force of my freaked-out evening.

“You have ten seconds to explain what you’re
doing here, Ranger Taylor.”

With his eyes still red and puffy, I couldn’t
tell if he was glaring or just staring. “Or what?”

“Or…or…,” I hesitated before grabbing the
Sig. “Or I just might start shooting and ask questions later.”

The pepper spray had temporarily
incapacitated his sight and breathing but had done nothing to stunt
his reflexes. With a lightning-fast move, Zeke disarmed me, flicked
the safety back on, then shoved my weapon into his waistband as he
stood.

“I’ve had just about enough of your antics
tonight,” he grumbled. “You wanna have a question and answer bout?
How about you tell me what the hell you were doing at the home of a
known drug dealer?”

It took a moment for brain waves to trigger
and stop the muscles in my lower jaw from swinging loose. “How did
you…?”

“Know you were there?” Zeke finished for me.
“Tomas Ricardo has been on the radar of every state and federal law
enforcement agency this side of the Mexican border.”

“But how did
you
know?” I
clarified.

“Really? Did you not pay one iota of
attention to my job while you were living with me?”

“Five weeks is hardly enough time to…”

“I’m talking before,” Zeke thundered. “Back
when we actually used to talk. When we dated. Before you…”

It was Zeke’s turn to clam up as he shoved a
hand through his hair, picked up the water glass and walked to the
windows.

“Before I what?” I prompted.

“Forget it,” he muttered, taking a drink and
dabbing at his eyes before staring into the night. “Just something
else you’ll misinterpret.”

Now the boy had my dander up – and after I’d
helped nurse him back to health. Well, after I’d first hosed him,
that is.

“Before I what?” I demanded. “Before I
discovered who you really are? Before I found you with your arms
around another woman?”

“See that’s what I’m talking about,” Zeke
said, spinning around to face me. “You see one little thing and
blow it completely out of proportion?”

Oh huh-uh. He. Did. Not. “Out of proportion?
You were making out with another woman. That evil, back-stabbing,
lowlife Lorraine Padget, no less.”

“Hugging does not constitute making out.”

“That’s what I saw.”

Zeke slammed the glass down and sloshed water
across the island counter. “How can a woman like you be such a
completely irrational female at the same time?”

Irrational? That was one toe shy of outright
calling me stupid – just like I knew he would. I stomped over to
the front door, undid all of the doohickeys, then opened it
wide.

“Get out,” I commanded.

Zeke stood his ground with a cock of an
eyebrow.

“Get. Out,” I reiterated.

We entered a staring contest – and I was in
it to win it – until Zeke relented by placing my Sig in a drawer at
the far end of the kitchen island. In three strides he stood beside
me. He still reeked of pepper spray, but I wasn’t about to allow my
senses to react. I have
some
self-control, after all.

Stop laughing.

“Whatever you’re doing, Vic, stay out of it,”
Zeke said, his voice softening. “Next time I might not be there to
protect you…
or
your best friend.”

I winced. Taking Janine for moral support had
been just plain dumb. I slammed the door behind him in frustration
then leaned against it with a sigh. The logical side of my brain
told me Zeke was just looking out for me – and that he was probably
right. In more ways than one.

But you didn’t hear that from me.

“Aren’t you hungry, sweetheart?”

Mom prodded me with the overused endearment
as she sipped tea from the dainty china cup then nestled it on the
saucer. Out of desperation, I’d convinced her lunch would be best
consumed and digested within the air-conditioned comfort of her
favorite bistro instead of our usual locale at one of the patio
tables. That meant a confined crowd and noisier environment, two
things she didn’t relish, but also a relatively glisten-free meal –
a bonus considering the thermometer prediction topping out near a
hundred and twelve.

And that was before factoring in a thousand
percent humidity with no breeze. I could really use a stiff one –
breeze, that is. ‘Course, I wouldn’t toss aside one in the drink
category either. Or the male persuasion.

Think about it.

With a teetotaler mom in tow, I’d never get
away with a real drink. Plus, talking about a man in my life
threatened to give my mother apoplexy if the past was any
indication. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was anything but
godly, I’d swear my entry into the world was the second known
virgin birth.

“I’m fine, Mom. See?” I nibbled at the
avocado sandwich if only to satisfy her. The heat had stolen my
hunger – or maybe it was something else.

First Grady and his extracurricular
activities around the bar had our working relationship in a
gut-wrenching bind. Zeke and I were so far on the outs, it’d take
more than a weld to secure even a friendship at this stage.
Lorraine continued to haunt my shadow and remained number one on my
suspect list – but to what end?

Reggie had begged my help, but thus far I
hadn’t provided diddly on any hard evidence to free him from the
blackmailer. If I ever actually succeeded in securing said
evidence, I still had no idea how to avoid the coming public
fallout to stop her – or him – because the police would have to get
involved in order for that to happen.

If I didn’t have enough scrambling my gray
matter, now I had Seth to deal with.

Instead of focusing on Banker Boy, Grady
needed to take a hard look at Seth. And I’d rather liked that
lawyer, too. But discovering he hung out with the criminal element
in his off time had me worrying like a quarterback reading blitz.
On top of that, I’d introduced him to Rochelle. Then after Mr.
Ricardo’s recitation of my will – I mean history – I’d no doubt he
now had every tidbit on Janine too. All of this was gonna come back
and bite me in the ass when I least expected it.

Yeah, Zeke was right – I’d made some stupid
decisions lately.

“You look tired,” Mom continued, breaking
through my rambling thoughts. “Without that bedroom furniture, your
sleep must be dreadful.”

“The mattresses aren’t a problem, Mom,” I
said, “But Reggie did call to let me know the bedroom set has
shipped and should be here before the weekend.”

“That’s wonderful. Then you’ll be able to
sleep on something besides that floor.”

“Mattresses have been fine,” I assured.

“Then why do you look so tired? Has your boss
been working you too hard?”

“No, Mom. Work’s fine. I’m fine. Mattresses
are still fine. Everything’s fine.”

Except my relationships. Pretty much my whole
life at the moment. But I didn’t think Mom would stomach hearing
about all of my extra-curricular activities of late – especially
right after finishing lunch.

The check was paid with a flourish of her
signature before we left to mosey across the street to one of her
favorite boutiques. Air-conditioning never felt so sweet as I
basked in the cool comfort, while Mom informed the personal shopper
we wished to browse on our own before heading toward the backroom
lineup. Now it was her turn to piddle and poke through the racks as
if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“I’m concerned about you, Victoria,” Mom
admitted. “That whole breaking into your apartment thing still has
me on edge, not to mention that man trying to…”

“That was months ago, Mom.”

I really didn’t want to rehash the moment my
life flashed before my eyes. Or mention the run-in with a gang last
week. Or meeting a notorious gang leader turned
goods
distributor
last night.

“But you just moved back in,” she said,
holding up a breezy, blue skirt I turned down with a vigorous shake
of my head. “I can only imagine what living there all alone has
done to you.”

If she found out about my other recent
associations, she’d hog tie me and lock me in my old room at the
family fortress. ‘Course I’d simply find a way to sneak out and
escape like I once had.

But let’s keep that between us.

“I’m not alone,” I said. “I’ve got Slinky to
keep me company.”

“A cat can’t protect you like a man,
dear.”

“I don’t need a man to make me feel safe.” I
jerked off the rack the first thing I came to and held up the
hideous mint green and brown monstrosity for her perusal as the two
thousand dollar price tag dangled into view.

Reality check, ladies. Sometimes quality
fashion and price don’t coincide. Often you end up overpaying by
huge margins when you shop for name only. By then you’re stuck in a
dress that looks more like a garbage bag someone puked mint
chocolate chips on in order to get your money’s worth of wear.
Trust me, it’s not worth it.

Tears in Mom’s eyes stopped the building
frustration and deflated my anger. Okay, maybe the dress wouldn’t
look that bad on. Or maybe it wasn’t the dress at all that caused
her reaction.

For the first time in – well, too long – I
really stopped to notice my mom. The tightness around her mouth.
The fine lines tugging at the corners of her eyes. The dark circles
that hadn’t been there two weeks ago. She was so worried about my
sleep, or lack thereof, even though it appeared she hadn’t slept
well since the return to my apartment. A twinge of guilt pinched my
heart. I placed my hand over hers.

She smiled behind the veil of unshed tears.
“A mom never stops being a mom…no matter how old her child
gets.”

“I know,” I responded. “I’ve just had a few
things on my mind.”

“I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

“I appreciate that, but…”

She gripped my hand. “And it will go no
farther.”

Understanding flashed through me like
menopausal heat. If anyone grasped the destructive effects of the
gossip train, it was Mom. She’d stood firm beneath the constant
barrage of whispers and backbiting stemming from her husband’s many
indiscretions, while I’d kicked the dust from my designer heels and
escaped from everything my parents had stood for. In the process
I’d stopped trusting, and never realized until that moment how I’d
lumped Mom into that category along with all of the other saintly
sinners, ex-boyfriends, and other assorted lousy losers. All the
while, she ended up being the one person who’d always been in my
corner.